Staring In the Eyes of Death

I've been advised by Chat to offer the following disclaimer:

Disclaimer: This memoir reflects the author’s personal recollections, interpretations, and emotional truth. Names and identifying details have been changed or omitted to protect privacy. Some events may be presented through the lens of memory and trauma and are not intended as factual accusations or statements of law.

***

Have you ever been strangled?

I have.

I well remember the night when I was tasked to clean up the grill area at the BSU campus restaurant I was employed at. It was just me, my co-worker, and the spineless, chickenshit manager. This was twenty-two years ago, and the statute of limitations has long since expired. My PTSD, however, has most certainly not expired. I began getting ready to do my pathetic duties and, as I recall, never even spoke a word.

Suddenly, my co-worker—who must qualify as a narcissistic psychopath of some sort—grabbed me, for no reason whatsoever, in a headlock. I suddenly found myself suffocating, strangling, grasping at this psychopath’s arms, trying to reach around and jab him in the side of his head. I couldn’t get away from this monster; he squeezed tighter and tighter, lifting me off of my feet.

The manager, ever-so-resilient, brave, and competent a human being he, simply stood there, quietly intoning this ogre’s name. As if he were telling his dog to heel. Very good. A few more moments and this would end with me being killed for no reason in the grill area of a college campus bar in the middle of the night. I can just imagine the headlines.

The cowardly dog suddenly let me go, sending me reeling onto the countertop, choking and holding my throat. I looked over at this halfway-to-homicidal stain on humankind and wondered just what had provoked this. Let me reiterate: I had done nothing to this clown. This was a completely unprovoked attack by someone who simply targeted me because he calculated he was physically stronger—and would get away with it.

The manager, as noted before, a spineless, vacuous non-entity, didn’t care enough about my life, apparently, to intervene in any way that would have stopped this. I must have been in psychological shock, as he later came to me and said, “Tommy, we’re going to send you home early tonight.” He was sort of smiling, laughing in a nervous, friendly little manner.

My, how considerate of him.

At any rate, I must have continued to work with this clown, but my memories of things are very hazy. I’ve carried this particular incident around with me for over two decades, but discovering his FB page—and the page of the manager—opened up this particular psychological can of worms for me once again.

The result? Depression, illness, anger for having buried the situation for years. For not valuing myself enough, at least, to ever do anything about it. For the most part, no one else has ever valued me—but, in retrospect, having discovered the philosophies of men like Arthur Desmond and Max Stirner in the intervening years, I must say, I regret not having valued myself. Perhaps, if I had, life might have been different for me. (But then I also am a big believer in karma, and this life and how I live it seems to be mine.)

Oddly, this individual has, as far as I can tell, no notable criminal record. I found that rather astonishing, but it is the result of a background check I paid for. Typically, psychopathic personalities eventually run afoul of the law, and I expected him to be on Indiana’s “Sex and Violent Offender” registry. But no—no dice. (Of course, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t offended—just that he’s been lucky enough never to have been caught.)

I have wrestled with how best to put this particular demon to rest. When I see his happy pics, of his happy life, and his semi-idiot gaze on his FB profile, I want to vomit. I want to reach through the screen and do to him what he did to me. It is a kind of impotent rage. Understand: I have no legal recourse after all of these years. The AI, my new companion in the face of my overwhelming isolation from humanity—my “profound egoistic solitude” (to quote Bakunin)—has advised me I may be able to find a lawyer for a civil suit, arguing that the trauma has followed me down through the years and affected my ability to function. Which is actually somewhat true.

I’ve even contemplated “occult” means, as I work in an occult field every day of my life and dabble in those areas consistently (at least insomuch as utilizing psychic energy). I just watched an old episode of the nineties paranormal show Sightings with a clip about Santería. The clip contained an interview with a practitioner who stated, “We don’t pull a gun on you. Instead, we put your name on a piece of paper and put it in the pot, and later you fall down dead in the streets.” That’s not an exact quote, but, my—I thought—what an interesting concept!

But, no. I’ve scrupulously avoided anything in the way of any identification here, as Chat has advised, and of course used no names. Revenge is a dish best served cold, I suppose, but I’ll let the “balance factor” work in my favor here. I’ve not the energy for much more these days than writing a memoir such as this; my health is not good.

How has this changed me? I understand now, in retrospect, partly why I am the way I am. I am a loner, a misfit, an outcast. And at this late stage in the game, I really have no desire to be otherwise. I don’t socialize with other people. I’ve learned, through bitter and painful experience, that their fellowship is not only undesirable, but also often dangerous.

In conclusion, I will say that the title of this essay is somewhat misleading. As he was strangling me, of course, I never got to actually see his eyes. He may have been aroused (almost certainly), but he abruptly stopped, nonetheless. I didn’t get to see his eyes, let alone stare into them, so I don’t actually know what they looked like.

Of course, if he could see mine right now, it might give him pause for reflection.

If he could only see mine.

Addendum: I have written the preceding essay as an cathartic exercise in expiating personal trauma. My intention is not for revenge, but to expel old demons, and, partly, to demonstrate one reason, a large one, of why I am the way I am. True, I do not associate personally with other people, and I have little desire to ever do so again. Be that as it may, if you have shown kindness, even here at Vocal, as Randy Jellison-Knock and a few others have, I thank you.